happy hours

i remember happy
hour.

actually is was happy six or seven
hours

after work, a short drive
from the office.
tie on,
a cheap coat from Simm's
wearhouse.

the johnny carson suit with
a fat tie
and wide lapels,

or was it a thin tie,
with thin lapels, who knows.
the nineteen eighties are a blur.

but we drank, we sang, we told
stories.
we embellished.
we flirted and misbehaved as much
as possible

without breaking the city laws.
hoping to get lucky
with some
girl on the other side of the bar.

sending her over a whole
draft beer in a glass, no less.

we'd take a lap around
and say clever pick up lines like,
hey. what's up?
come here often?

we drank one dirty mother after the other.
large mugs of white Russians.
eating
loaded potato skins
with sour cream and bacon.
onion rings
and greasy burgers.

we were a mess. mangling
born to run,
or love me tender by elvis
at the top of our
lungs,

or Alison by
elvis Costello. but we were
young, foolish,

desk jockeys in brown shoes,
and a small paycheck about to be
half spent.